


Good Luck Charm

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Actors, Alternate Universe - Actors, Dancers, Don't Let The Tags Fool You This Is Safe For Work, Kinktober 2019, Makeup, Theater AU, Tights, Wholesome Safe For Work Content In My Kinktober? Heck Yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-28 03:55:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20960057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: Dating a theater actor has more downfalls than Shirabu can count, from sitting through abstract ballets to having to buy fake knives five minutes before a show starts because some stagehand broke the last one.But Yahaba is always there to remind him why it's all worthwhile.





	Good Luck Charm

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober Day 8 - Prompt: Tights

A slow melody drifts through the theater. The piano notes swirl together, arcing higher, tangling in the vaulted ceilings where they echo down to greet the harmony of the violinist. Shirabu quickly picks his way through the aisle. Another moment and he would have been late.

Hands grab him and yank him to the side, away from the audience. “We’ve got a problem,” Watari whispers.

Shirabu looks from him to the stage. Checking his watch again, he sighs. He is late after all, and so is the show. “What’s wrong this time? I swear, if they broke another prop...” He lets the threat hang in the air for Watari’s imagination to fill in the blanks.

Watari shakes his head. “It’s Yahaba.”

Shirabu freezes. His mind splits between fear and exasperation. Did he break a leg? Did he destroy another shoe? The possibilities are endless. Patting Watari on the shoulder, he makes his way back stage.

Behind the velvet curtains, Hanamaki juggles prop knives. A distraught ballerina runs by, searching frantically through the spare costumes. Kunimi tries to hide in a supply closet, but Iwaizumi drags him mercilessly back to his station.

Sidestepping around the circle of stretching ballerinas who whisper under their breath like a coven of witches chanting for good luck, he walks into the dressing room. A towel smacks his face.

“Come on,” Yahaba mumbles. He desperately flips over a box of fancy gloves. “Where are you?”

Shirabu kicks the towel out of the way. The dressing room looks like a tornado ran through it. Blazers and petticoats cover the flood. Makeup spills over the countertops. A sock hangs off one of the ceiling fan blades. Shirabu tiptoes through the mess.

Growling, Yahaba digs through the pile of gloves. “Gotta be here somewhere.”

Shirabu places his hand on his shoulder, and Yahaba screams. He throws the gloves; a beaded black one falls on Shirabu’s head.

“Don’t do that,” Yahaba snaps. He punches Shirabu’s arm.

Picking up the glove with two fingers, Shirabu takes it off his head. “What are you doing?”

“It's my tights.”

“Your tights?”

Yahaba grabs his arms. “I lost my lucky tights.”

Shirabu closes his eyes. He prays that when he opens them, he will be in the audience watching the performance, far away from the reality before him, but instead he only finds Yahaba’s frantic gaze. “You have lucky tights?” he asks.

“Yes,” Yahaba snaps. Releasing Shirabu, he resumes his search. “They’re black, and they’re stretchy. And they’re magic. I wore them that one time the theater sold out.”

“The theater sells out every other week, Shigeru.”

“But I was the lead that time.” He dumps out the laundry hamper. Rolling up his sleeves, he searches through the mass of dirty socks and wrinkled leotards. “I wore them that time the light fell too, you know? When Kunimi missed his nap and forgot to screw it down? The tights saved me.”

Shirabu sits down and tries to comprehend the sheer absurdity of the words “the tights saved me.” Nothing comes to mind.

“Oikawa-san is directing tonight. I _cannot_ blow this.” Yahaba scowls at a pair of tights. To Shirabu, they look the same as all the other tights he's worn, but Yahaba throws them aside as if they have personally offended him.

This has gone far enough. Standing up, Shirabu grabs Yahaba and drags him to the vanity. “You’re not gonna blow it.” Four different hairbrushes rest in a neat row; Shirabu selects the one that looks the least complicated.

“What if I do?” Yahaba persists. He pouts, but he doesn’t resist when Shirabu begins to brush his hair.

“You won’t.” Shirabu tries to get his bangs to lay flat, but they resist both his efforts and gravity, curling up at the ends. Sighing, he swaps out the brush for an eyeliner pencil.

“I won’t,” Yahaba says, “_if I have my tights_.”

Tilting Yahaba’s chin up, Shirabu runs the pencil gently along the rim of his eye. “You don’t need luck. You’re a talented dancer and a decent actor.”

“Decent?” Yahaba voice rises.

“Hold still.” Tightening his grip on his chin, Shirabu works on the other eye. He’s not the best at this. He doesn’t know what any of the jars on the vanity contain, but he knows the ballerinas use the small golden ones to make their skin sparkle. Unscrewing the lid from one, he dabs the strange powder along Yahaba’s eyelids. His breath ghosts along Shirabu’s fingers. Sliding his hand up to cup Yahaba’s cheek, he says, “You can do this.”

“With my lucky tights.”

“Shigeru, if you say tights one more time...” He lets the threat hang in the air, empty and nonthreatening. He could never hurt Yahaba, no matter how dramatic he gets when he’s stressed out.

His stash of potato chips, however, is fair game to be destroyed, and Yahaba wisely heeds his warning.

Yahaba places his hand on Shirabu’s. “Don’t you have something lucky? Something that... that makes you feel like nothing can go wrong?”

“No,” Shirabu says, and he means it. He doesn’t need an object to give him confidence. He was the one who passed all of his tests by studying, and he was the one who made it onto the college volleyball team through hard work, not by the influence of some magic kneepads or gifted notebook.

Yahaba drops his gaze to the floor, and Shirabu’s chest burns. It was the truth, but that doesn’t mean it was the right thing to say.

As he stares at Yahaba, the slightest bit of doubt creeps in. Shirabu can overcome any obstacle on his own, no luck required. But there was always one thing with him each time. One person texting him through study sessions. One person cheering louder than everyone else during his games. One person there to help him back up whenever he fell.

_Yahaba._

Shirabu leans forward until their foreheads touch. “Why would I need a lucky charm,” he murmurs, “when I have you?”

**Author's Note:**

> As the final curtain falls, Yahaba beams, lowering his head in a dignified bow.
> 
> Shirabu smiles from the crowd. Tights or no tights, Yahaba has enough luck within himself to accomplish anything, and Shirabu will keep telling him that until he finally believes it.


End file.
